Values of Battle
by Magi Silverwolf
Summary: Some battles are just worth fighting, even when others don't see it. (HC fill; ToS fill; DtW fill)


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.  
 **Warnings:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. In particular, this fic mentions child abuse and intent to harm a child. There's also discussion of unhealthy coping mechanisms and touch starvation. Please exercise understanding of personal sensitivities before and while reading.

 **Author's Note:** This is of minor impact to the overall story, but I work my headcanon that there is a specialized group among the wizarding community that, through tradition and intelligent breeding, are stronger and more in tune with their magic. This affords them a greater degree of respect among their fellow magi but it comes with certain obligations, to magical beings and to Magic Herself. In similar fashion to the group of nobles from historical romance, I call this group the _magum_ , which is also serves a descriptor of anything having to do with the group. Also, this is a Soulmate AU and serves as a prequel for _Promises of Victory_. Understanding how the _soulmate_ aspect works is not necessary for enjoyment of this fic.

 **Challenge/Competition Block:**  
 **House:** Hufflepuff  
 **Category:** Themed (2000 – 5000 words)  
 **Prompt** : Hate (word)  
 **Fill Number:** 02  
 **Representation(s):** Protector; Police/Auror; Costs of Service  
 **Bonus Challenge(s):** Second Verse (Mouth of Babes); Second Verse (Ladylike – Aggressive); Second Verse (Not a Lamp)  
 **Word Count:** 3317 (Story Only); 3336 (Story & Epigraph)

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Values of Battle  
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"Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness."  
– H.P. Lovecraft  
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Gran had always made certain that Neville had known that his parents had loved him far beyond his value as their heir. Repeatedly, Augusta Longbottom had reassured him that he was perfect, even if he never showed even the tiniest bit of magic beyond the knack of growing particularly strong magical plants. She had always been careful when she explained how the attack which had stolen his parents could be what made his magic reclusive and how even the most skilled healers had no answers about whether it would be recovered enough for wandwork by the time he would need to start Hogwarts. The familial magics had settled around Neville, proving that he did have magic of his own, and Gran had stories of small displays of accidental magic from before the attack, but the lack of episodes grew exponentially more worrisome the older Neville got.

(Neville hated the pinched look Gran got whenever someone mentioned it within her hearing. He hated how her fingers always flexed like she wanted to draw her wand on the person who had the nerve to ask if maybe Neville had _never had_ magic and the story was just a cover. He hated when she was _angry_ , even if he knew that she wasn't angry with him. Gran was already so serious. Being angry didn't suit her.)

At times it seemed like Gran had only two purposes in life: protect her grandson from anything that might harm him and make certain that he never doubted that he was loved. Neville really hadn't minded either of those things most of the time, even if it meant not doing things that most of his peers considered fun and entertaining. Anything that distanced him from solid earth did not seem the least bit entertaining in his book, which meant Gran's unwillingness to allow brooms onto the grounds of Thistlewood had never mattered. She had barely allowed Neville to participate in the _magum_ tradition of training with a mundane weapon along with learning the wand forms. She had only yielded after finding him staring at his father's displayed sword and wand.

The call of tradition overrode a lot of the fear that he would hurt himself.

Neither of them mentioned the growing possibility that Neville's own wand may never hang above the mantle and how little a sword of his own would compensate for such a lack in their world, even if it didn't matter to Gran or his parents. Gran simply continued her stance on things while Neville continued in partial ignorance about why telling him that he was loved mattered to the same extent as protecting him. He never questioned why Gran prioritized the lessons on etiquette and mediation over lessons on magical theory; he assumed that he already knew the reason.

He _wasn't_ a Squib, but did that even matter if he couldn't attend Hogwarts? If he could never wield a wand for even the simplest of spells? Gran _loved_ him, but would his soulmates? The counters were just a hint that they would likely meet, but everyone knew that even meeting didn't guarantee a happy life with them. A nagging voice always reminded him that if they rejected him for this, would they really be his soul's match, but it still worried Neville. Too often, he would sneak out to the practice field in the middle of the night, determined that if he couldn't prove himself with magic, then he would find another arena to do so.

Through all the years Neville spent fretting and struggling to come to terms with the possibility of maybe just not being _enough_ , one of the counters on his arm stayed frozen with four digits while the other ticked upwards. He didn't ask about why he had two while everyone around him had only one. He didn't ask why his mother, mostly unaware of the world around her, would make a habit of brushing her fingers over the frozen counter every visit just like she would touch his cheek. He didn't ask about his counters because asking about them would lead to wondering if it really meant he had met one of his soulmates when he was less than a week old which naturally led to less cheerful wondering how he would recognize that soulmate if they met again. Magic had to know what She was doing when She gave him two soulmates instead of one, and if he questioned that too much, it may ruin everything.

It wasn't until after Uncle Algie had dropped Neville off the West Tower that it occurred to Neville that maybe Gran's insistent reminders of how Neville was loved had a purpose beyond what he had known as a kid. Augusta had taken a long time to stop crying in relief of Neville's survival and let him go enough to face her brother's shameless glee at forcing the incident of accidental magic. Neville could only watch in awe as his stern but loving grandmother transformed before his eyes.

The Dowager of Blackpool had no need of any weapon greater than her words to destroy the would-be threat to her family. Every syllable she uttered cut Algie's excuses just as surely as the dagger she wore on her non-wand arm. Her unyielding expression silenced her older brother as thoroughly as a spell. Like a dragon in defense of its hoard, she was relentless in getting her message across to the _would-be hero_ in front of her.

 _No one had the right to hurt a child, not even family. Nothing excused making a child feel unwanted._

As much as Neville wanted to be like his father (brave and hardworking) or his mother (strong and loyal), in that moment, he gained a new goal. Someday, he wanted to be worthy of being known as Augusta Longbottom's grandson. He knew that she would never deny him, that she loved him unconditionally, but by Magic, he wanted to make her proud. He wanted her to never feel like he was doing less than everything he could.

It wasn't until Neville first laid eyes on Harry Potter that Gran became his actual hero.

Harry Potter was a lot like the legends had always claimed. The Potter charisma had clearly bred true even if this particular Potter didn't have the confidence to back up the way he pulled attention to himself just by existing. He had the same quick cleverness that the histories mentioned his parents having, even if he was just as quick to hide a great deal of it. Harry never hesitated to defend someone else, no matter the potential cost to himself and often without even stopping to think about that aspect. Harry accepted everyone as they were, no matter how they acted or what they said. Harry never shirked on any of his tasks, always did his homework, and never cut class or practice.

Harry had trouble sleeping, spending a lot of time in the window seat in the dorm staring out at the night sky like it would disappear if he looked away for too long. Harry was often cold, even in a decently heated room, but he would still give his spot by the fire if someone else wanted it. Harry was extremely thin, with barely any more flesh than a stick, but ate every meal like the plate would be snatched from him (well, _almost_ every meal, because stress always put Harry off his feed, and by Magic, Neville hated how Ron and Hermione sniping at each other counted as _stress_ and the pair didn't even seem to notice). Harry never complained about someone wanting to play a game or needing help with something, even if it meant that he had to stay up late to finish his own homework (which made the already scanty amount of sleep he got even less). Harry flinched at angry voices around him, whether they were directed at him or not. Harry didn't always notice when he had been injured and would continue doing whatever task needed to be finished before stopping unless physically stopped or incapacitated. (Neville hated that, too, not only because it was another thing that Ron and Hermione _didn't notice_ , but because of the level of habit it spoke of, how it hinted at how _used to pain_ Harry was.)

Harry was the first to put his name down for staying over the holidays. Harry didn't understand why Malfoy's taunts about his family not caring were supposed to anger him. Harry was surprised whenever someone gave him something or thanked him in anyway. Harry gave no thought to giving his last chocolate frog to Neville to cheer him up. Harry thought that Neville, with all his difficulties performing magic, was worth _twelve_ of the likes of Malfoy.

(Maybe that was the moment that Neville fell, with Harry's green eyes staring at him, so wide and earnest and silently begging him to _just believe him_. Of course, at eleven, Neville wouldn't realize what the feeling _was_ , just that the thought of denying Harry _anything,_ let alone something so simple, seemed to become physically painful at the sight of those eyes. Harry deserved so much more than he ever got.)

Harry always kept his wand arm tightly wrapped in a muggle bandage and never so much as mentioned _counters_ and _soulmates_ to anyone. If the topic came up, Harry would stay quiet and noncommittal, never mentioning anything about the counter that had to be under the bandage. His eyes would follow any confirmed match with a wistful look, as if he was seeing something that he had long resigned himself to never having. In fact, Harry seemed resigned to never receiving any kind of affection beyond friendly rough-housing from one of the Weasley boys or the occasional hug from Hermione.

(Watching that always made Neville seethe, because how could they not notice how very much Harry was practically _starving_ for touch? They were his friends! Surely, they had to see how much Harry needed _more than that_ , how the sheer lack was driving Harry to increasingly desperate lengths to get any kind of touch he could, no matter how dangerous it was? _Why weren't they helping him?_ )

Somewhere along the way, Harry had become accustomed to receiving less of everything but pain from those around him. Somewhere along the way, Harry had become _everything_ to Neville. Somewhere along the way, Neville had begun wishing his counter had a matching one on Harry's covered arm. Somewhere along the way, Neville stopped wanting to be simply Augusta Longbottom's grandson and started wanting to be worthy of Harry Potter's attention, of the value which Harry had so earnestly conveyed upon him.

Somewhere along the way, Neville realized that Harry didn't have a Gran reminding him that he was loved, that he was treasured, that he deserved to be protected. Harry had no one to tell him that he didn't deserve to be hurt or that he was wanted. It then occurred to Neville that maybe it was even worse than simply not having someone to support him. Maybe all those habits that Neville had noticed over the years, all those unconscious flinches at raised voices and hands, meant that someone had hurt Harry, that someone _was hurting_ him.

Suddenly, the comments about how much Harry's family hated him seemed less like jokes and more like cries for help that had gone unanswered.

It was truly unfortunate that this realization had been at the exact moment that Harry had appeared before a packed stadium with a _very dead_ Cedric Diggory. It was startling clear in how Harry had clung to the corpse even as Dumbledore struggled to pry him away that Neville's _waiting to say something_ about how he felt was becoming beyond stupid and moving into _pure stupidity_. Augusta Longbottom wouldn't want her grandson acting stupid; Frank Longbottom wouldn't think that waiting out of the fear that he wasn't _enough_ yet was the right thing.

But it was the thought of his mother's fingers softly brushing over the four digits of his frozen counter that finally gave him the courage he needed. Harry would need all the support he could get, especially if what Neville suspected about his family was even close to true. A summer of reading the _Daily Prophet_ make barbed comments about Harry only firmed Neville's resolve to say something.

Yet the moment he spotted Harry standing next to Ginny, his expression already tiredly resigned, Neville's bravery withered like Devil's Snare exposed to sunlight and he found himself with a tongue tied in knots. As Ginny swept them both into the compartment with a blonde that Neville didn't recognize, he felt an odd spark against his normally well-behaved magic like how he had always imagined a pinging sound would feel. In the utterly mortifying hours that followed, Neville managed to not think about the oddness of the Ravenclaw beyond how she seemed just as _hungr_ _y_ for affection as Harry was.

It was only later, as he got ready for bed, that Neville noticed that his other counter had frozen. He didn't have time to think about it, though, because at that moment Seamus and Harry started shouting at each other. Neville would normally be thrilled to see Harry standing up for himself finally, but the way that Seamus looked like he was willing to take a swing if Harry kept pushing like he was and how Harry looked like that might be _exactly_ what he wanted, Neville couldn't help but think that this was not a healthy expression of finally understanding his self-worth.

(Why couldn't anyone see how much Harry was drowning? Why wasn't anyone doing anything? Neville hated himself a little for continuing to do nothing, even more when Harry looked so grateful at his simple announcement of how he and Gran felt about what the _Daily Prophet_ was doing. Oh, Mother Magic, those eyes should be illegal. How could anyone be willing to hurt someone who had eyes like that?)

In the whirlwind that was the first week of school, it was understandable that Neville didn't have the time (or energy) to buck up his courage again. At this point, Harry probably wouldn't take that kind of confession well anyway. He was constantly on edge, looking like he was ready to fight the entire world. More than once Neville watched as Harry left the Great Hall early or didn't come at all. Neville knew that Harry also wasn't getting even the scanty few hours of sleep that he normally did, having woken up more than once to the sound of Harry stumbling out of bed to the bathroom only to barely make it to the toilet before retching.

(It was about Cedric's death. It had to be. Harry had witnessed a _murder_ —that was the word he used in Umbridge's class. Why couldn't anyone see how close Harry was to just falling apart, with only anger and spite holding him together this long? What would happen when that was exhausted? It was unfair, but Neville hated Cedric, just a little, and for the ridiculous reason that the boy had died. If Cedric hadn't died, then Neville wouldn't be watching Harry slowly following. He couldn't let this continue much longer, but that didn't mean that Neville knew what he could possibly do to help.)

In the end, it was Luna who pushed things. Neville was headed out to the greenhouses when she finally managed to pin him down to talk to him. Considering that she dropped out of the stone buttresses that arched over the walkway onto him and sat on him as she rattled off her theories, that description was literal. Neville was glad that no one was around to see the blonde that had straddled his waist as she leaned forward on the palms she had on his chest, talking about being his soulmate. She spoke as confidently as she had on the train and earlier that week when declaring her belief in Harry.

Throughout the one-sided conversation, he struggled not to squirm. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was actually very comfortable to have Luna's weight on his stomach, to feel the grip of her thighs along his sides. The view wasn't bad either as she rose above him like a triumphant she-dragon and the loose fabric of her poet's shirt fluttering like wings with every gesture she made to punctuate her points. She wasn't hesitant around him, like he was used to people being, and she was excited at the prospect of being his soulmate, of sharing him with Harry.

Oh, Mother Magic, for all that he had occasionally dreamed of it, Neville had never dared to articulate that hope. Even in the privacy of his own head, that had seemed like too much to ask. Harry had always been so important to Neville that it seemed _greedy_ to want him as a soulmate, to have that claim on him. Harry deserved so much more than a wizard who barely had enough active magic to get into Hogwarts, than a boy who couldn't stop his hands from shaking whenever Snape was anywhere in the vicinity. Harry deserved someone who could protect him, not just from murderous Dark Lords and abusive relatives but also from himself. Harry had spent too long _starving_ for even the briefest touch from those around him, and now he clearly didn't care how he got it.

(And Neville _hated_ how Hermione had picked up on the Weasley children's habit of tussling to show affection, because the last thing Harry needed was another reason to excuse however his relatives treated him. It made him angry enough to want to fight the world himself that none of them seemed to notice how much Harry didn't even like it.)

Harry deserved someone who would cherish him as the precious treasure that he was, someone who would never deny him even one second's worth of affection. He deserved to know that he was wanted, that he didn't have to accept being hurt. He deserved someone who was _brave_ and _loyal_ and _fierce_.

Luna pressed down over him. He had a glimpse of her bright smile before her face was too close for him to see anything other than her wide eyes. This close, Neville could see the multiple shades of blue that made up her irises. They ranged from a silvery blue to a shade that matched the heather in the moors around Thistlewood. Her tiny nose brushed along the side of his, from the bridge to the tip. Gently, she rubbed their noses together, letting their breaths mingle.

It wasn't until he felt the tip of her tongue against his lips that he realized that he was speaking all his thoughts aloud, giving voice for the first time to all his secret hopes and fears about the green-eyed brunet. Luna gathered them all up like they were drops of dew under threat from a villainous sun and with only the intent to _protect_. Something inside his chest loosened and for the first time in a long time, Neville felt like he could breathe. Finally, _finally_ , there was someone to help him with all the worries that had plagued him for years, to quiet the fretting about being worthy.

 _This must be why Magic gave them each other to love_.

Neville laughed, suddenly delighted with the world, which seemed to be a thousand times brighter than it had when he had started this walk. Just like she had gathered his words, Luna used her lips to steal the sound. She tasted like dark treacle, sweetness with a hint of teeth, and she kissed the same way.

They had their work cut out for them, if they were to save Harry as he needed to be, but it was a battle that would, without a doubt, be _worth it_.

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An Ending  
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End file.
